“Oh you know, Vicky Besset told everyone in history class that I walk funny because I used to weigh three hundred pounds and broke my ankles. Now I hear ‘Crippled Cow’ everywhere I go.” The girl said all this as breezily as possible, trying hard to hide the shame and embarrassment that was ripping her apart. It was better to laugh than cry, even though only the latter would be honest.
“Ah, Vicky. The other day she told the teacher that I had a gun in my backpack. She’s a special little bitch.” And like the girl, he had that same tone in his voice, the one that refused to let the other know how badly these things were tearing them apart.
“She’s probably afraid of you,” the girl told him.
He looked straight ahead at the distant mountain, his expression darkening like a shadow. “She has a right to be afraid of me. Girls like that never get the karma they deserve. If she’s not careful, I’ll deliver my own karma.”
The girl fell silent, her mouth closing into a hard line. She’d only know Camden for a month but during that time, she was surprised at the things he’d thought and said. She had always assumed she was the only one with such righteous anger, but she was very, very wrong.
She made a mental note to never cross Camden McQueen.
Now
Talking to Camden felt surprisingly easy. I never had a problem getting along with people when I needed to, but I was sure I’d feel vibes of resentment coming off of Camden as he sipped his matcha tea and I gulped down my coffee. But I couldn’t detect anything. He was open and relaxed, his hands coming dangerously close to mine each time he lowered the cup of tea on the table. I felt hyper aware of him and his body, brought on by my own guilt and memories, I’m sure.
“Are you all right?” he asked. He placed his hand on mine—no sparks—and my eyes flew up from the empty coffee cup where I’d apparently been hypnotized by the sediment at the bottom.
“Sorry,” I said sweetly. “I’m just…”
“Overwhelmed?”
“That must be it.”
“The memories…” He trailed off. His hand was still on mine. I was conscious—too conscious—of the weight of it. What it meant. Whose hand it was. My hand was going to start twitching at any moment.
“So,” he said, removing it and wiping at his chin. He leaned back in his chair. “So then I became a tattoo artist.”
I realized I had been totally spacing out for most of our conversation. That wasn’t like me at all. Then again, he was a guy from high school, not a mark.
“Really?” I asked, and my eyes immediately went to his tattoos. Upon closer inspection I found a method in the madness of shapes and colors. Scorpions, skulls, snakes, wings, and pin-up girls all met each other on blue ocean waves. Tiny inscriptions ran throughout.
“I take it you never heard of my tat business?”
“Should I?”
He nodded at my arm where I had a band of music notes inked all around. “Where did you get that?”
“Some parlor in Mississippi,” I said, then quickly clamped my mouth shut.
But he didn’t ask me why I went back to the state I lived in before I moved here. Instead he said, “It sounds familiar. The tune.”
“Did you just hum it in your head?”
He beamed at me, looking proud over impressing me and lazy at the same time. If he could have leaned any further back in his chair, he’d be on the ground. “I told you, I play guitar. What song is it?”
“It’s nothing,” I told him. “Anyway, so you’re a tattoo artist. I’m guessing you got pretty big.”
“Big enough,” he shrugged with false modesty. “I was one of the top artists in LA. I was even on LA Ink. Ever watch that show?”
“I only watch Netflix.”
He nodded, as if he could deduce something about me from that. “Well, you weren’t missing anything. You know I’m going to keep humming that tune and eventually I’ll figure out the song. Maybe then you’ll tell me the meaning.”
I frowned at him. “I think you overestimate your skills of persuasion.”
“I got you to sit down and have coffee with me when you were ready to bolt out the door.”
Yes, well it helps that you’re hot, I thought. “So what are you doing here if your business is in LA? Visiting the ‘rents?”
From the way his eyes shifted—changed—I could have sworn a cloud passed over the sun, putting the whole shop in shadow. But it was only in his eyes and it disappeared as soon as he smiled.
“No. Not my parents. Though they still live here. Dad’s still the sheriff, you know.”
How could I forget? He ran my parents out of town.
“I actually have my business here. I own a tattoo shop. Sins and Needles,” he said. “It’s just coming into town from the east. Maybe you saw it? It’s in an old house with replicas of Bela Lugosi and Swamp Thing on the porch.”
Charming.
“My shop’s downstairs, I live upstairs.”
“And you make enough to live on?” Despite the proximity to LA and the facelift, Palm Valley still wasn’t a place for culture, or sub-culture as it were.